Or something. I really want to learn how to write a proper story in thrid person. Hell, even my more third-person stories are technically thrid-person in the way I think most mean. You know?
Look, The Imortal king isn't technically thrid-person in my head, because this story is mostly supposed to mimic the fairytale style of writing. If that makes sense. Like, I wanted it to sound like it's being told by an older person to a kid or something to explain not to go summoning ancient demons or something, you know?
But I tend to write in first person. I don't entirely know. I should try to practise more writing to be honest. I've been hooked on scripts for the past months. Mostly because it's way faster and you can focus onto the actions more. But I really ought to work on proper story telling.
I just don't know how to get to third person properly. Mostly because, how do I make it clear a character is working, you know? Like I don't like that in writing it turns into a slightly awkward situation, if that makes sense? Like how do I make a somewhat "show" the scene instead of "telling it".
Let me be a bitch. I'll try to write one scene in like two styles and let's see how this goes.
Jessica was a bitch. Everyone knew. I knew it. You probably did. Her damned shrill voice. Her annoying manner of chewing much too loud and much too close. The way she tended manage to always forgot her wallet. But well. I was sucker for affection, wasn't I?
Try as I might, I couldn't steel my heart enough. Like her stupid mutt, ready to come at a whistle. Fucking pathetic. But, I won't lie. Not when anyone with eyes could probably see through it. I loved her. I didn't want to. It would have been better if I hated her. I loved her.
It was clear that Jake and Jessica were a pair joined at the hip. Where one was, the other was very close behind, if not already there. Quite expectly, Jessica was beautiful and Jake was reliable. An unfortunte thing it is. To be reliable.
But make mistake it was a mutal hell. Jake would come readily. Open his wallet with a snarl but open it still. It was quite the joke too. That if Jessica would ask it of him, Jake would throw himself from a cliff with a smile.
Yeah... I don't know. It's interesting, yeah, but also... Maybe I'm just more used to first person. I feel the thrid-person could work a very short story or more distant sort story, if that makes sense?
I don't know, I feel like it's harder to limit how much emotion is present in narration, if that makes sense? I feel like I end up a narrator is a bit too much personality? It can work, but if the narrator has that much personality, why not just make it a first-person story than?
I don't know... I'll have to practise it more. Also... For the gag, I put this into an AI detector and apparently my First-person writing sounds a little ai? Wtf...
The room unusually cold. A strong gust blow in through the window, fluttering the white lace curtian with it's force. I suppose I could be thankful that stupid vase was no long on the windowstil. I had to clean and replace too many vases to keep leaving them there.
Either I had to cold the window. My boots squeaked along the wet wooden floors. I damn near slipped before getting to the window and wrestling the window shut.
The cold wind blew through the window, carrying the rain on it's harsh gale. A gap sat on the window still. It was the home of a vase for a while. One until Lucy had given up on replacing them whenever a storm blew in and broke yet another vase.
Lucy let out a sigh as she walked over to the window to close it. Her boots struggling to keep traction on the wet surface of the wooden floors. Lucy reached out, grabbing the window and pulling it shut against the harsh winds.
I kinda like this. It's going a bit better. I feel like I fucked up on the first one by making it way to personal, if that makes sense. Like the second one has an evironment while the first run through was mostly set in a characters brain. I don't mind the second run through. Might still prefer using first-person, but I would like to figure out something on something more... actiony.
When you do something, wrong or illegal. It is kinda important to breath, in and out. Calm down. A calm person usually skirts under the radar. And so, here I am. Breathing in, and out, standing, somewhat awkwardly, in front of a strangers door. I guess, those in the know, would be able to point me out already, but I was mostly hoping the late night would help hide that.
Besides, I had most of my focus on the picks in my hand. The usual method I've done a thousand times before. Granted on my own front door. Turn the tension wrentch, softly push down in the lock, listen for the pins. It should be about five, if I my count was right. Five, maybe one or two a barrel or rattle pin. It was hard to say. And so, I took a deep breath. In. Out. Focus on the sound. The soft metalic scrapping of the pick over pins and the locks handle. On the feel, which pins stick, which have enough give to slow dip. The click as one sets and the handle tilts ever so slightly more. Slow and steady, wins the race.
It was a quiet night. Calm. Rather boring if I would say. The sort of nigth you could find a man creeing from shadow to shadow, his hands stuffed into his pockets and a hood pulled so far over his face you could hardly make out anything past his chin. And trust me, one such man found himself out there like that.
Propped, awkwardly, against a strangers door. He had a cheap lockpick set clasped in his gloved hands. Shakily trying to feed the hooked end of the pick into the houses locked door as he applied enough pressure to bend the thin metal of the tension wrench.
Some say, there's a trick to it. Not in the wrist but the fingers and ears. Carefully feel inside. Map each pin, five is the usual for these sort of locks. At least he assumed so as he brushed the pins with the pick. Each brush echoing a soft metalic scrapping into the street. He gritted his teeth, leaned in and pressed down. Click. Not much to celebrate, but he managed to set one of the pins.
Defualting to a more Hitchcock sort of "hmm, yes, watch this silly man pick a lock. Hmm. He's doing it somewhat wrong" was kinda fun. I'd like to figure out more action heavy stuff. Maybe... a duel?
It was just a friendly duel. I had to remind myself that. If I go to hard, someones going to get hurt. I didn't like that possiblity but, well. Who was I to turn down a friendly duel with a fellow hunter.
A gently wrapped my hand around the worn leather grip of my rapier as he stepped back. He lightly poked at my guard with his own. "Ready?"
No, not entirely. But I nodded and got ready. He wasn't much better than me. Faster, maybe. More likely to pull a trick. Yes. Prior duels lead to throwings of sand, or fake injuries or worse yet, attacks before either of us were ready.
And so. I knew to keep my distance. Let him move first than parry, riposte, move back, repeat. Keep a cool head and he will play out his hand.
He lunged first. I barely managed to bring my rapier up. The metalic clang barely started to ring out before I slid my blade down his strong. The tip was now aiming at him. But he was ever the weasel. He stepped to the side, pulled his swoard free. I barely managed to step back before he swang again. This time catching my shirt with a soft rip. A minor cut through the cotton at best.
He was toying with me. Wearing me down with effort. No matter. I was more aggressive. I took a step closer, stabbed at his side. He deflected. I kept the pressure on. Each step he took back I stepped forward.
I would've won. Had he not tripped over the odd tree root and fallen over like some newborn deer. "Halt!" He cried out, holding his hands up. I couldn't help but chuckle.
"You're a real sword master there, brother."
"Oh, hush. Help me up and than I'll show you!"
Regardless of how professional someone might act, childishness will shine through. And thus here we are. Two hunters, brothers, preparing for another duel. As if any of the prior ones where fair. One would always cheat. Throwing sand into the others eyes and lunging as he whimpered and rubbed at his eyes to dislodge the harsh grains. Or perhaps, he would screech, clutch his side as if mortally wounded before using his brothers worry to get a cheap drop on him. Or even just lunging before the duel had yet to begin.
But all that was was the mischef of the youngest. Either way, when his brother begged for another duel the eldest had no hope of denying him. And now they are here yet again.
The stood, not more than a few paces between eachother. The elder raised his rapier, holding it firmly infront of him. With not more than a second to loose the younger lunged. Clang, the elder parried and quickly slide the blade down. Before it's gnarly tip could embed itself within his flesh the younger stepped to the side.
He had something the elder one did not. Speed that with experience would be unbeatable. Pity the elder knew his tricks. Tricks such as relentless attacks. The younger brother swang, his blade ripping a small cut into his brothers shirt.
Perhaps thinking a better offense might spare his clothing further, the elder attacked again. the younger brother parried and tried to gain some space to recover. Space which was quickly claimed again by the advance of his brother. Again and again he backed up, pushed further towards the trees the populated the palace grounds.
He was much too focused on avoiding the blade that he didn't notice the tree roots protruding up from the soft soil behind him. His boot however very quickly informed him of it. It caught harshly on the rough bark. First pulling his balence off and than pulling him to the ground.
the elder brother let out a soft chuckle as he looked over the crumbled heep on the ground. A faint pinkish hue covered the youngers face before the slightly rough voice of his brother sounded out. "You're a real sword master there, brother."
Not one to take teasing laying down. Volentarily, at least. He snapped back. "Oh, hush. Help me up and then I'll show you!"
Actions kinda hard. I usually get a chance to write action while doing scripts. THe challenge is beat of beat feels slow because we can see everything one move at a time, while more general descriptions feels a little like "He swang, he blocked, he won" which is also kinda boring.
The closet I wrote to action before is a few of the Zombie ones. But there the characters are not really the sort to mentally think beat for beat. Actions are more wrapped into how it effects them. You know? Kate isn't going to explain the action of running, beyond how it felt.
Maybe I should practise an Injury?
I am no stranger to pain. I mean, I am clusmy. Right? I'm sure I've had worse. This is just a little headache. A little headache that's all. It's not like a concussion or some bruise. I just suddenly felt like my brain was being squeezed in a vice by some pressure.
This is horrid. I can't think over the fucking loud engine of the bakkie. And the road? Since when was the road so bumpy. I can feel me brain bounce around with every pothole. And why is it soo bright?
I don't know what I did wrong today? I ate, I had water. Maybe I slept wrong? Ugh, does it fucking matter? I just wish that closing my eyes actually stopped the sun from being so bright.
"Just, hold on a bit longer, Mary. We're almost home."
I offered Mark a smile. With my luck it looked more like a grimace. What rotten luck for this to happen today of all days. At least Mark is understanding. I just hope a nap would get this damned headache out of me skull.
Mary sat, slumped against the passenger seat of the bakkie. Her hand firmly placed over her eyes and forehead. As if mere skin and bone could stop the suns relentless reign over the day. Her jaw was set, tight. So tight that had Mark not know better he would've tried to warn her about damnaging her teeth.
no, rather he was focused on steering the large metal bakkie past the numerous potholes that covered the road. The last downpour did a clear number on the tar and now left large gaps in the otherwise smooth road. And every time the bakkie had the misfortune of hitting one of these sudden gorges, Mary would tense up for just a second.
Mark glances over to her for a second. His brow creased as he muttered softly. "Just, hold on a bit longer, Mary. We're almost home."
Mary offered a polite if a bit stiff smile before she focused back onto herself. She was far from talkitive. Not that either her or Mark seemed up for a discussion. Mark for his part was focused on the road. His knuckles strained white as he griped the wheel and he eyes darting over roads rough form.
The thrid person let me show Mark a bit more. It doesn't make sense for Mary to be watching his movements while she's more focused on dealing with her own pain, so third person kinda allowed for both. But, I did loose the part of having Mary's pain addled thought process be visible, which is a little sad. That was fun to write.
Also, bakkie is pick-up truck but the South African slang of it. So, yeah...